


A Taste of Mallorca

by Regency



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food Porn, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Love At First Bite - Freeform, M/M, Meet-Cute, The Course of True Love (and First Dates)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4514433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/pseuds/Regency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Harry is a celebrated food critic. Eggsy is a Youtube-famous food blogger.  They meet at the grand opening of Mediterranean restaurant Mallorca when they’re forced to share a table.  It’s a meal, and a night, neither will soon forget.</p><p>For the 2015 Kingsman Bang. (Revised 11.21.15)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LazyBaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/gifts).



> Apparently, I really like Hartwin AUs. Who knew? *nervous laughter* Everyone knew.
> 
> This story contains vivid food descriptions, wild flirtation, enthusiastically putting out on the first date, and orgasms culinary and otherwise, so you know, watch out for that.
> 
> I received some amazing art from the marvelous [Granpappy-Winchester](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com/)/[LazyBaker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker) to go with this story. It's not very spoilery, but you can check it out afterwards if you're worried. Either way, you need to check it out [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4632786) at once. You will die. Or maybe that's just me. IDK. Go look. (Sara, thank you so much for being a solid gold supporter of this story. It means the world to me. Here's hoping the story doesn't disappoint.)

Harry Hart is one of the foremost food critics in Europe.  His opinions have been featured in such fine publications as _Der Feinshmecker, Food & Wine, Fire & Knives, The Art of Eating, _and _Bon Appétit_ , not to mention _Vogue_.  He’s penned three bestsellers.  Three. Call him an arrogant prick if you will—and his oldest friend certainly will—but Harry is accustomed to getting his way the majority of the time.

He is not going to get his way tonight.

Neither is Eggsy Unwin.

It’s for the best.

…

…

Harry is engaged in a rather heated text argument with his long-time comrade and culinary cohort, Merlin, over what the sardonic Scot has termed, ‘Harry’s godawful palate and despicable life choices.’  In short, Merlin thinks the new Mediterranean eatery in Chelsea is going to disappoint Harry’s lofty expectations. Harry is of a very different opinion.  He is texting his friend as much in more colourful language when he becomes aware of a uniformed presence at tableside.  He looks up to see a nervous server in a painted tie and apron hovering with an unexplained hanger-on loitering a meter behind.

He sets aside his mobile.

The server twists his clasped hands and smiles.

Harry fails to be placated.  _And I had such high hopes._

“Mr. Hart, I’m afraid a rather irregular event has occurred.”  Harry allows his peaked eyebrow to speak for him.  “Yes, sir, it appears we’ve overbooked for opening night. This, of course, does not reflect the usual calibre of our service as we are—that is, will be a shipshape operation.  Your wine, tonight, is on the house as a token of our appreciation for your time and gratitude for your understanding despite this inconvenience.”

Harry cuts the perspiring steward off before his spiel consumes another minute of his life.  “Inconvenience?”

The server gulps, glimpses at the more casually dressed figure bringing up the rear.  “Yes, Mr. Hart. As I said, we’ve overbooked, and in order to accommodate all of our guests this evening, some parties are being asked to share.”

“Share what precisely?”  Harry effects a harmless façade, tilting his head in the face of the poor, no doubt underpaid young man’s growing incoherence.  Mallorca’s service score is plummeting with each second, though they both have enough awareness of that fact not to mention it.

“A table, sir.  Would you be so kind as to share a table with another guest since you happen to be dining alone?”

Harry is quite suddenly ashamed of the anxiety fear of his disapproval puts on the waiter’s face.  This is the _maître d’_ ’s mistake.  The wait staff shouldn’t be punished for the errors of their supervisors.  And it isn’t as if Harry hasn’t noticed the crush of patrons filling each table to capacity.  That isn’t unheard of, merely inconvenient.  The guest waiting for Harry’s approval—or disapproval, should he opt to continue being a prick—is dressed in a neat sports jacket, off-the-rack based on the fit, ironed slacks, a collarless shirt; passably shaved, startling blue-green eyes, _young._   Easily twenty years Harry’s junior and then some.  Handsome, he also notes.  It’s an absent observation given that Harry is four years unattached from someone in his own age bracket, and contentedly at that.

Be that as it may, Merlin does say that Harry could use a fresh perspective in his critiques of popular eateries about town.  He calls Harry a fussy old man in a fussy middle-aged man’s body and accuses him of being increasingly out of touch.  Perhaps a younger man’s eye is what Harry needs.

“Very well.”  Harry rises, reminded of his manners at last, and gestures for the younger fellow to take the seat opposite his own.  When he chooses instead to stand behind his chair, wearing a rather strained smile beneath reddening cheeks, Harry curses himself. He is aware that he’s made something of a poor first impression and is determined to make amends.  But the waiter…

The waiter prattles on aimlessly a while longer, obviously relieved not to have been thoroughly reamed out, and promises to return with a refilled basket of crusty bread rolls with _mahon_ cheese as an accompaniment.  Harry nods where appropriate, notes the waiter’s failure to offer a wine list.  _Merlin is going to lord this over me for at least a month._

Harry allows the unknown man to seat himself first before resuming his own place.

“Might I have the privilege of knowing whom I’ll be dining with tonight?”

His table mate offers a slightly more confident smile that is far lovelier on sight than a smile has any right to be and a hand which Harry promptly grasps, unthinking.

“Eggy Unwin.  Food blogger.  And you are?” 

Of course Eggsy knows who he is. He has three of his books in hardback and has downloaded copies of every editorial and review he’s published in _Food & Wine_ or _Fire & Knives_, not to mention others in a couple of languages Eggsy can only passably read.  He _knows_ Harry Hart, but maybe Harry doesn’t need to know that.

“Harry Hart, food critic among other things. Seems we might have something in common.”

“Seems like it.” Eggsy fidgets with his cutlery, ill at ease and unable to meet the eyes of the critic who seemed to disapprove of him on sight, though he appears to have come around.  He sneaks a peek over the top of his place setting to find the older man in the midst of examining the dinnerware in studied concentration.  There's no telling from his expression what he thinks of it.  Not that that’s unexpected considering his reputation for being inscrutable on the job.  Eggsy decides to follow his lead since he’s positive he’ll make a fool of himself if he tries to make conversation.

 _What’d a toff like him want with me anyway?  I’m just taking up space._   He pummels his disappointment into submission and gets on with checking the place out.  This is where Eggsy excels, picking up details and storing them away for when he needs them to type up his reviews.  As Eggsy gets into the swing of mentally ticking availability of parking and valet services, ratio of wait staff to diners, and general ambience, Harry loses patience with the Spanish-inspired dinner plates and takes to inspecting his dinner companion instead.

“What’s your first impression?”

Eggsy tugs his attention from the circumference of the dining room where he’d been scoping out accessibility for wheelchairs, proximity to the kitchen and lavs for the worst tables, proximity to the street-facing picture windows for the best.

“You askin’ me?”

“I do believe I’ve just asked you.  Thoughts?”

“I didn’t think you took opinions from other people.”  Eggsy winces at how that came out.  “Sorry. I mean you just don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not quite sure how to take that.  What ‘type’ doesn’t solicit opinions from their compatriots?  Assholes, perhaps?”

Eggsy squirms on his chair, his face heating up contrary to his attempts to keep cool.  He’s fucking this up.  “True that.”  Eggsy wishes the waiter would hurry back so he could get a glass of water to play with or something to occupy his hands.  “I was just noticin’ how cramped it is in here.  They oughta go for smaller tables, maybe swap out the square ones for round ones, bistro-style.  It’d make it easier for people using wheelchairs and such to navigate without gettin’ tripped up.” 

Eggsy points at each area of concern as he comes upon them and Harry follows Eggsy’s indecorous pointing with interest.  He had noted those deficiencies himself albeit in the abstract; it hadn’t occurred to him to consider how they might be genuine obstacles for a number of patrons.  Not for the first time, Merlin has pegged Harry’s deficiencies perfectly.  Harry has his head too far up his arse to see daylight.

“Fascinating.  I wondered if twelve services wasn’t perhaps too ambitious for a start.  Do you favour a ten-party setting?”

“I favour pubs myself. A booth’s as good as a bar to me. This is the first posh place I’ve done ‘cause I wanted to branch out and give my readers somethin’ new.  It‘s all right so far other than the bookin’ thing.  The food’ll tell me what I really have to know.”

“I concur.  It’s good to reserve judgment.  It’ll keep you from making an ass out of yourself like certain critics I could name.”

When the younger man’s eyes crinkle under the strain of him trying not to laugh at Harry’s expense, Harry is helpless not to return the gesture.  He offers a second handshake, intent on rectifying his earlier lapse.

“Might I try again?  Harry Hart. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Eggsy returns his grasp, his touch a mite damp from nerves but sincerely enough.  His companion’s hands are strong and callused, sure.  Harry is someone he’s happy to have been right about in the end.  He wants Harry to be right about him.

“Eggsy Unwin. I’m a really big fan of yours, actually.” The heat of Harry’s touch lingers in his fingers well after they’ve let go.

“Are you really?”

“I am.  I’ve got loads of your stuff at my place.”

Harry must admit to some fascination. His followers tend to skew older, a touch more worldly, to say nothing of their wealth. Eggsy is a lovely aberration.

“What attracted you to me? To my writing,” Harry amends, seamlessly averting disaster at the slip-up.

Eggsy shoves his embarrassment at the innocent misstep just as far down as he did his previous disappointment. The man didn’t need to know his editorials had wallpapered Eggsy’s childhood bedroom till Dean came along and tore them down to burn.  “I like your style.  Was a real comfort to me growin’ up an’ all.  Nobody was doin’ what you were, writing about food.  That’s posh shit—” Eggsy reddens, clears his throat. Wonders where the bloody server is. “Sorry.”

“It’s no bother. I’ve been known to curse the air blue for an exquisite stuffed portabella mushroom.  Hazard of doing business, I’m afraid.”

“Not very gentlemanlike.”

Harry pulls a frown and loathes at once any person who made young Eggsy doubt his calibre.  “It very well _fucking_ is.”  Eggsy’s brows arch in surprise.  Harry enjoys the look of it more than he should.  “Purity of speech does not a gentleman make.  Chivalry does.  Of the two of us, you’ve so far comported yourself with more civility than I.  My hat’s off to you.”

Eggsy fights the flush rising on his face.  He’s not usually the blushing the type, trust, but Harry Hart was his first real crush after he admitted he was into blokes as much as birds of a certain type when he was a teen.  That was a process.  Harry went from being the sort of stepdad he wished he’d had instead of deadbeat Dean to the sort of teacher he wished he’d had in school to the sort of gent he wished had been his first kiss. To his thinking, if you were giving something up to anybody, they’d better be worth it, and his fifteen-year-old self had been convinced that only Harry was.  That hadn’t worked out as he’d have liked back then, but look at him now.

“Ta very much.  You ain’t so bad yourself.  You mighta woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, but you look the part.”

Harry chuckles and _fucking hell_ if Eggsy doesn’t feel that in his gut.  Harry’s _Ode to Modern Cuisine_ was the first audiobook Eggsy ever bought just to put a voice to the words on the page, and then he’d gone and fallen arse over tit for the man’s laugh instead.  Turns out it wasn’t Autotune.  _Just fuck me up._

“I apologize again.  My friends often accuse me being set in my ways, amid other less flattering accusations, and I suppose, this once, they’re right.  The world does not revolve around my desires.”  He eyes Eggsy in clear appreciation. “To my grave misfortune.”

Eggsy winks.  Because he’s a shameless masochist and Harry fucking Hart is a masochist’s wet dream.

Eggsy Unwin, in Harry’s estimation, is simply a dream.  He’s a hedonist’s gift to himself, a delicacy of youthful flesh slapped with a comely smile.  Harry is a hedonist of the highest order and Eggsy whets his appetite for all things beautiful and rare.  If flirting with Eggsy is a poor idea, Harry is at a loss to recall when he has had a better one.

Harry is reminded by the passing of a luridly uniformed server that he came here tonight to complete an assignment, not to ensnare a paramour, however appealing to the wandering eye.  _A critic’s job is never finished._   He drags his gaze from the tantalizing birthmark on Eggsy’s throat to Mallorca itself.

The restaurant is a spacious open plan, decorated in blatant appeal to lovers of bright and convincingly rustic interior design.  Harry is enchanted.  By the Moroccan tile patterned in cobalt and umber to gold that lines the walls from chest height to the cherry wood baseboards and the cement-tiled floor, by the iron rail work that lines the spiralling staircase that disappears to the level above.  The naked scrubbed table top draws his trailing hands, the Birchwood surface buffed to sleek perfection, steady on its rod-iron legs; his chair is the same.  This little bistro isn’t one that’s found its feet yet, but it’s built to last.

Harry would usually murmur his observations into a digital recorder to be transcribed in his study later in the evening. Tonight, he makes an exception for the comfort of his companion.  He hates to be a bore. Moreover, he hates to be embarrassed. He might stammer if Eggsy laughed. He’s been known to wax philosophical in purple prose before Merlin tears into his manuscripts with red ink.  Annoying as his patently overzealous editor can be, he doesn’t mind terribly. Food and fine dining are Harry’s first loves, words are merely secondary and can be sacrificed if needs must.  None of this crosses Harry’s lips as he takes in his surroundings, once more lapsing into silence and letting his conversation with Eggsy languish. 

Not that it bothers Eggsy any.  He gets to see the man work, and don’t doubt that’s what he sees.  Harry Hart is a creature of his senses and to see him put on his glasses and squint into the shadowed corners, to see him touch so gently, gently as a lover might, the stone and the metal, breathe deep as a new-born to savour the scent of dishes hissing away in the kitchens, that’s worth a little silence to Eggsy.  He’d keep his mouth shut all night for the chance to watch his idol do his thing.

As quick as that, Eggsy knows he’s in deeper than he’s been in ten years of treading water.  Harry Hart is close as fingertips and he doesn’t know what to do with that temptation.  _This must be how it feels gettin’ almost everything you dreamed about._

“I gotta to make a quick call, if ya don’t mind. I won’t be a minute.  Ask the server to bring me a glass of water if he comes back while I’m off?”  He’s already up, barely giving Harry a chance to refuse if he could find a reason.

“Certainly,” the older man replies to Eggsy’s retreating back.

Eggsy trots up the mosaic staircase to the outdoor dining area on the roof and makes for the black gate leading to an informal smoking area downwind the diners.  He saunters more casually than he feels, whipping out his mobile and dialling his best mate once he’s out of earshot of the others.  She picks up on the fourth ring.

“Rox, you ain’t gonna believe what happened.”

“What is it? Is the food that bad?”

“Service is slow to start and they’ve overbooked; that’s what I’m callin’ about.”

“I’m in class for another hour, I can join you then if you don’t mind waiting.”

“No, it’s all right, this ain’t even about that. It’s…you know that foodie writer I’m big on. Buy all his books, read everything he writes?”

“The one that had you singing ‘It’s a Hart knock life’ for two days straight before I threatened to cancel my Netflix subscription so you couldn’t watch _Annie_ again?”  His best friend has a long memory.

“That’s ‘im.  He’s here. He’s _here_ and he’s eating with me.  They overbooked and the waiter asked us to share a table for dinner.”

“He said yes?”

Eggsy cringes.  “Sort of? Wasn’t too wild about the idea at first—he looked right pissed, to be honest, but he warmed up after a bit.”

“How much of a prick was he?”

“Decent-sized. He’s better now and he apologized.  Rox—Roxy, he’s fuckin’ gorgeous up close. I thought the books were exaggerating.  I don’t know if I can do this.”  Eggsy’d known the man was tall from his author bios; he hadn’t counted on the chef being eighty-five percent shinbone and fifteen percent bashful smiles.  Eggsy has faced down his share of arseholes, those he can handle, but Harry’s self-deprecating charm is dirty fucking pool.  A stiff upper lip is useless on charm.

“You don’t have to do anything.  You can just put off the review and come back another night.  Though you did say the waiting list was two months long.” Like he said, a long memory, this one.

“And that was when I first booked a month back.”  Eggsy props himself against the fence, the state of his jacket be hanged. He’ll have to keep the man in the bespoke suit from seeing his back.  Should be easy enough since he doesn’t much think he’ll be able to stand with Harry watching him as he does.  “I gotta do it tonight.  There’s a cancellation fee.”  There was a reservation fee, too.

“You can’t be serious. _Eggsy_!”

“I know what you’re fixin’ to say and I’m tellin’ you I’ll make it back off ad clicks. It’s nothing.” It’s sixty quid that could be going to Eggsy’s baking certification, but he’s not about to tell her that.

“If you say so. Just don’t let this guy muck this up for you.  This is your night, right? You’re on to bigger things than covering the sandwiches Doug’s slapping together over at the Black Prince.  You can do this.  Get through it.”

Eggsy questions every day how he got lucky enough for culinary wunderkind Roxanne Morton to look at him twice without kneeing him in the nuts.  She’s good people and she loves him like his kid sister loves him, like his mum does with none of the disappointment that he isn’t more like his dad.

“Thanks, Rox. Talk to you later?”

“You’d better.”

…

…

Back at the table, Harry puzzles briefly over Eggsy’s hasty exit.  Once the server’s come back round with menus, their lamented bread basket, and Eggsy’s ice water, Harry fishes out his mobile to ring Merlin at the office. 

“Calling already, this is sure to be good.”

Harry elects to ignore his smug tone.  “Looks as though I won’t be dining alone after all. They’ve overbooked opening night.”

Merlin tuts.  “Strike one.”

“Indeed.”  He’ll give himself the evening to enjoy Mallorca’s first strike before he lays the others against them.  Eggsy’s company is a treat he hadn’t foreseen.

“You sound awfully cheerful for an inconvenienced man.  What is it? A beautiful woman to share your wine with? A beautiful boy?”

Harry purses his lips. He’d rather keep mum than give his best friend the satisfaction of hearing him pine.

“Harry,” Merlin warns in that knowing tone of his.  Merlin saw him through his storybook romance with Levi the Doctor, as he remains in Harry’s memory, when Harry was drunk on his own perceived genius and clumsy in love with a man so far out of his league he could hardly be seen on a clear day in spring.  Merlin warned Harry that he would lose his lover to hubris, and then had not once gloated when he turned out to be right.  Merlin knows his romantic streak too well.

“It’s only dinner. I’m enjoying his companionship, nothing more.  He’s a food blogger, you know.  Food’s all we’ve talked about and we’ve yet to begin the meal.”  Harry checks the time.  “Fifteen minutes and only bread to show for it.”  He helps himself to a roll.

“Strike two.”                                

“Quite.”  Harry spots Eggsy returning from the outdoor dining area. “I have to go, the fun is about to start. Give my regards to Percival and James.”  Merlin has yet to shake the worrisome duo in twenty years of claiming to try.

“Shall.”

Harry cuts the call and puts away his phone in time to greet his dinner companion with a reserved nod.  The younger man is winded, obviously having rushed through his own call. The colour suffusing his cheeks suits him, tinting his already arresting eyes a brighter shade of greenish-blue.  _The Atlantic can’t hope to compete._   Harry has little preference for eyes of any colour, but he thinks that may be changing.

“All is well on your end, I take it?”

Eggsy unfastens his single button and reclaims his seat.  “Yeah.  Just checking in with my best mate.”

Before Eggsy can ask, out of brazen curiosity and not a little idle jealousy, who it was Harry was whispering to, a different server returns, this one outfitted in a dinner jacket to match the vibrant, Van Gogh-esque bowtie at his neck. 

The maître d’, Harry notes at once, wincing at the contrast in hue between the striking blue of his attire and that of the ornate dinner service.  _If they cannot match, they must compliment._ _Amateur aesthetics._

“Sirs, might I interest you in the wine list?”

“Yes, please.”  Harry turns to Eggsy kindly.  “Would you mind if I made the selection?”

“Not at all. Wine’s not really my area. I’m more of a Strongbow and black bloke myself.”

Harry scans the list as soon as he has it in hand.

“A perfectly respectable drink to get one started off.  My friend will have a Strongbow and black. I’ll have a martini, stirred not shaken. Made with gin, _not_ vodka.” Harry returns to leather bound wine listing.  “We’ll have the Sangiovese ’97 with our meal, if you please.”  The maître d’ bows and pops off to fulfil Harry’s request _tout de suite_. 

He’s clearly scared of displeasing Harry more than he already has.  Harry, in Eggsy’s reading, has a reputation for fairness dwarfed only by a profound intolerance for excuses. He grades harder for them.

Eggsy props his chin on his hand. “We haven’t even ordered yet.  How’d you know what’d pair up?”

“The menu’s Mediterranean—Spanish, to be precise. Given the predicted herbs and spices, Sangiovese is a good red for the region. Semillion or Riesling are equally worthy white wine contenders if we opt for seafood dishes.  It’s all down to palate beyond that.”

All Eggsy knows about the palate he learned reading Harry’s book, _Lips, Teeth & Tongue: A Sensualist’s Guide to Taste_, when he was seventeen.  Harry’s coy anecdote about the darkly sweet beekeeper in Corsica had him so hot under the collar he couldn’t look at a jar of raw honey for a month without risking popping a semi in the baking aisle at Asda. 

The maître d’ returns before Eggsy has a repeat experience and distributes their cocktails.  “Sirs, would you care to order now or do you require more time?”

The two men share a look.  Eggsy shrugs.  He hasn’t so much as cracked his menu.  “We could do with a couple of minutes.  Thank you.”  The head waiter seems to have overcome his nerves.  Eggsy feels like he should warn him that the worst is yet to come. He shrugs off the impulse and reviews the menu now that he has the chance.

Harry takes this opportunity to sip his martini.  His eyes slide shut as he works the liquor around his mouth, tests the balance of it on his intrepid tongue.  Eggsy forgets how to read watching him.  Harry’s expression turns peaceful, content as it is refined.  The older man’s face loses a share of its sternness, replaced instead with something like a smile, as if there’s a secret that’s been told between Harry and the gin and it’s one no one else knows.

 _Point to the bartender_ , he thinks _._   Eggsy hasn’t the first clue where the warmth in his chest fits into this case of lust he can’t shake.

“Good?” he enquires once Harry’s fit of euphoria seems over and done with.  His lower lip shines, slick with the clear spirit.  Eggsy could suck it off to taste what put that look on his face, but he’s got a guess about how well that’d go over and he ain’t too sure about the ending.

“Impeccable.”

“Guess they haven’t totally washed out.  Sure Jeeves’ll get a kick out of that.”

“Indeed.”  Small as Harry’s answering smile is, his eyelids crinkle behind his glasses like he wants to laugh as much as Eggsy does, so Eggsy beams large enough for two.  _‘S not fair, him being that good-looking at his age._

Eggsy levies his menu.  It seems to feature full-colour photos of every kind of appetizer, entrée, dessert, and aperitif there is.  He hasn’t got the first idea where to start.  “You’re the big shot food critic, got any recommendations for a poor sod with a workman’s palate?”

“Your ‘Li’l Winners’ didn’t offer any suggestions?”

The name sounds stilted in his mouth and Eggsy almost chokes on his first mouthful of drink.  “You know my blog?”  His followers started using that name that after Roxy tagged one of his poorer attempts at baking French macarons #unwinning and it stuck.  That was over a year ago.

Harry cocks his head in amused concession and begins flipping through the menu’s laminated pages curiously. “I’m familiar with it, yes, and your YouTube channel.  My colleagues are fans of yours.”

Eggsy covers his mouth to stifle an embarrassing sound.  “Shut up. The Kingsman Gastronomes like my show?”

Harry files that whimper away for later contemplation and hums in the affirmative.  “You’ve been a subject of frequent discussion at our Monday staff meetings.”

“ _Oh, yes_.”  If Eggsy’s voice breaks, Harry is too polite to point it out, though he wonders idly how else he might draw such a promising noise out of the younger man’s mouth. “Keep talking. I gotta tell me mum about this.”

The Kingsman Gastronomes are an arguably informal culinary guild operating, strangely enough, out of a Savile Row tailor’s shop.  The rare chef admitted to their exclusive circle is characterized by a bespoke world outlook, one that takes ‘Manners maketh man’ in the utmost spirit. Kingsmen are creators and activists, philanthropists and, foremost, connoisseurs of food.  Coming to their attention is an indie food blogger’s dream, and considering the rating of Eggsy’s dreams, that’s saying something.

“You’re very good, Eggsy. You’ve all the passion we admire and none of the short-sightedness many of us are regrettably afflicted with.”

“That means a lot comin’ from you.”  Eggsy can barely swallow around the lump in his throat.

Harry slips a hand between the candles to grasp Eggsy’s wrist in consolation.  “Consider this, you and I are colleagues.  You should become accustomed to compliments from those in your league. There are more to come.” Then, with a gentle squeeze, he releases him.

Eggsy lowers his eyes to his menu, blinking rapidly as he can to fight a rising tide of bewilderment.  It’s not like Eggsy’s never had a compliment. He got loads of them during Basic in the Marines and more still when he was in gymnastics.  He gets thumbs-ups on his vlogs on a regular basis, each one as valuable as the next hundred.  The thing is, this is the man Eggsy looks up to telling him he’s on the right track.  That has every ‘fuk yeh’ and ‘hot shit bruv’ comment he’s gotten in two years of doing this beat.

Harry catches his young companion’s befuddled expression from the corner of his eye.  He forgets sometimes how far removed he is from the trenches of his youth where a stalwart’s word could make or break his budding ego.  _I’ll have to be more generous in disseminating praise in the future._   The world needs more empathy and somehow he’s forgotten that in his dotage.  _Dear god, Merlin was right._   More than once in a single night; Harry will never know another moment’s peace.

Much as Eggsy wants to thank Harry for the compliment, he can’t make his lips form the words.  Harry doesn’t seem to notice the oversight.

Eggsy sips his drink and tries to take solace in the all too familiar buzz that fills his head.  This man’s got him all out of sorts when he hasn’t the time for it.  He’s got a job to do tonight; Roxy won’t let him live it down if his review slips by the wayside.

“Ya still haven’t recommended me anythin’.  Got any ideas?”

Harry is studying the menu from end to end for the second time.  “Their _sobrasada_ has a good reputation as an appetizer, I’ve heard.  And the _paella ciega_ , also good for a main. Their rock salt sea bass has kicked up waves among the [Beard](http://www.jamesbeard.org/awards/resources#types) judging pool.”  Harry probably shouldn’t tell a lay journalist that, but the volume of things that Harry shouldn’t do that he does anyway could fill libraries.

Eggsy peruses the list of entrées Harry mentions, noting what Roxy might like based on the descriptions and colour-enhanced snapshots of food porn.  _Might be good for a birthday dinner if I save up._   If the next few months go better than the last, he might be able convince his mum to come with.

“It’s a decade ‘fore they’ll be eligible, innit?”

“The restaurant, yes, but if the chef is an up and comer, they’ve a number of avenues for advancement.”

“That’s how you got your first Beard award at twenty-eight,” Eggsy recalls.

Harry furrows his brow.  _Speaking of ancient history_.  “Was it twenty-eight? I suppose it must have been. Did you look that up?”

Eggsy swallows, nervous under the restaurant’s guttering candlelight.  “Didn’t have to.  I read it in one o’ your books. _East of Ealing_ , I think it was.  You know how I like your work.  Pristine stuff. Clean prose. You don’t talk down to your audience.  ‘S like I said, ain’t many writers like that in your field.”

“We tend to talk out of our asses, don’t we?”

“You get used to it, I s’ppose. Doesn’t even sound all that pompous once you’ve got the language down.”  Eggsy attempts to smooth the crisp creases in his paisley cloth napkin.  “I started reading you when I was twelve, hiding out in the library from a bunch o’ tuffs.  Gave me something to look forward to when I got to school.”  Eggsy shuts his mouth to cut off his rambling. His friends are used to his tangents by now, but Harry’s not his friend.

Harry is once more in the position of wanting to injure someone he cannot name.  Children may be children, but their cruelty is learned someplace.  Those teachers are the individuals he most wants to harm.  He straightens his impeccable place setting in an attempt to soothe his budding anger.

“I’m pleased to know I could lighten up your darkest days.”

“You still do.”  Not wanting to discuss it further, Eggsy taps a vivid photo depicting some sort of tomato-based dish to bring it to Harry’s notice.  “This looks good. I might give it a go.”

Before Harry can question Eggsy’s previous remark, their host returns from the front of the house to take their order.    Eggsy signals for him to go first and for the first time in some thirty-odd years of fine dining Harry draws a blank.

“The offerings are so varied,” he stalls, taking a vague gander at the appetizers he swears he memorized, “we’re having difficulty deciding where to begin. What do you recommend?”

The waiter stands tall, wearing a thoughtful expression.  _He’s familiar with the menu, good._   “The _paella ciega_ —that is, the blind man’s paella—is delicious. Very savoury, richly seasoned.  All of our tasters have loved it.”

“And the _tumbet_ ,” Eggsy enquires, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation.  He doesn’t want to look an idiot in front of Harry.  “How’s that? What’s in it?”  The pictures might be nice to look, but they leave something to be desired in telling him anything.

“A vegetable mixture including eggplant, potatoes, tomatoes, zucchini, and red peppers in a robust tomato sauce. It can be ordered vegetarian or with a meat option.  It likewise scored highly among our tasters.”

Eggsy tries to ignore how Harry’s hanging on his every word.  That’s the only dish he’d think of trying to pronounce and it doesn’t sound too bad.  “What are the meat options?”

“Grilled or roast beef, pork, lamb or fish.”

“I’ll have that with the lamb, medium.” He hands over his menu and goes back to his drink for solace.  It’s not that Eggsy minds having trouble with stuff like this, it’s stumbling here of all places that has his stomach in knots.  The cider helps a bit till he notices Harry’s still watching him.  He’s not laughing, if anything he’s puzzling Eggsy out, as if Eggsy’s the one who doesn’t make sense.

“What?”

Harry starts.  “Nothing.  I’ll have the _arroz brut con pollo_.  I assume the tasters are similarly fond?”

The waiter smiles not a little flirtatiously for Eggsy’s liking.  “Very, sir.”  Harry’s watches him go, a mite astonished.  _Suppose I can still turn a head or two._

Eggsy abruptly feigns a gasping cough, luring Harry’s focus back to the table.

“Are you all right?”

Eggsy taps his chest, wheezing.  “Yeah, guess somethin’ musta gone down the wrong pipe.”

Harry doesn’t so much as glance at the maitre d’ again, too busy holding onto Eggsy’s wrist with concern written all over.  Eggsy swallows a pang of guilt after assuring Harry he’s not about to drown in his cups and Harry takes the ensuing lull as his cue to move the evening along. He regales Eggsy with tales of the best Mediterranean dishes he’s had on his travels and misadventures that perpetually followed.

“I maintain that it’s all down to James. If he weren’t such a damned trouble magnet, we might be able to sit through a nice round of tapas without ending up in the middle of the Running of the Bulls at least once in a while.”

“ ‘E sounds fun. I like a little fun in a man.” James Lance’s reputation for chaos is as widely known as Harry’s reputation as a romantic.  Known affectionately as the knights of the dinner table, they go together like scabbard and sword. Very jealous ones, at that.

“He’s a handful,” Harry counters, childishly competitive over Eggsy’s admiration.  Never mind that James is years into the most complex romantic arrangement Harry’s observed in his long life with Merlin and Percival and would have little to no interest in Eggsy.

Eggsy snatches up a piece of bread to nosh on.  He’s sure he must be imagining how put out Harry sounds.  “That don’t stop him reviewing all your books, bruv.”

Harry softens, fond of his chatty friend underneath all the bluster.  “Nor I his.  He enjoys blindingly positive adverbs as much as I do.”

“S’ppose it’s him I should be eatin’ with, then. I could do with some blindingly positive.”  Eggsy doesn’t want to think about having to see his mother tomorrow or making nice with Dean for the few hours he’ll be permitted to stay. He doesn’t miss living in their dingy flat on the estate; he just misses his family.

Sensing Eggsy’s souring mood, Harry lowers his voice to speak to him, disregarding their approaching waiter and the uninterested patrons at the tables surrounding them.  “I’m _positive_ I couldn’t have a better dinner companion tonight.”

“You could be eatin’ alone.”

“And I’d be the poorer for it.”

There he is again, touching Eggsy. The very tips of their fingers slide together lightly, just enough to let Eggsy know he isn’t alone if he doesn’t want to be.  This is different from Harry Hart on audiobook lending his voice to the words he wrote, sometimes changing them on the fly when he found he no longer believed in them. This is Harry for an audience of one. For Eggsy, Harry’s stern edges are smudged soft.

Eggsy brightens, his spirits visibly lifting. He is in that instant too beautiful not to kiss and Harry wrests every ounce of his precious self-control to keep from doing so.

Their food arrives along with the wine and they fall into pensive silence, scrutinizing their respective dishes for presentation and temperature before they finally tuck in.  Eggsy moans at the first bite, because true as god, Eggsy’s a fish and chips sort, but this ratatouille dish, this _tumbet_ _mallorquín_ tastes like great sex feels. Crushed tomatoes coat his tongue, sweet and juicy and tart from olives, almost burning with the kick of the peppers.  The potatoes are buttery-soft combined with the grilled zucchini, savoury without overpowering the eggplant that’s supposed to be the main attraction.  He tries the lamb and the most of the _tumbet_ in a forkful, chewing slowly to really let the flavours coalesce in his mouth.  The mouthfeel alone…Shit like this is why he got into writing and talking about food. He ain’t sure there’s words for this.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans low and ragged and he’s not even _trying_ to do it like that.  That’s how good this is.

It’s this involuntary emission that has Harry shifting in his seat as he does his level best to concentrate on his own scrumptious meal.  And it _is_ scrumptious.  Harry’s decision to have to the _arroz_ _brut_ was a wise one. Saffron rice is a simple dish which easily displays the gifts or deficits of its preparer.  Mallorca’s chef has cooked this standard to perfection. The onions are beautifully sautéed, transparent and sweet, lacking the bitterness of a raw bite. They play nicely against the sliced pimento and the blanched peas, make a masterpiece coupled with sizeable chunks of bell pepper and tomato. The application of bay leaf and paprika show the trademark of a deft touch.  The chicken is equally savoury, moist and succulent, acting in perfect harmony with the rest of the ingredient, coming just short of stealing the show entirely.  What the dish’s presentation wants for in elegance its substance compensates for in development of flavour.  Merlin will have to make a feast of his misgivings; Mallorca has Harry’s vote.

Eggsy slows down as he reaches the midpoint of the course.  Harry’s a picture of orgiastic pleasure across the table, lips slightly stained from the saffron coating the rice, jaw working furiously to tear his feast into its component parts for consumption.  His Adam’s apple pistons as he swallows like some beautiful machine in action.  Eggsy’s teeth clank on his fork, wanting for something softer and suppler to bite that isn’t on offer.  They and the mouth that contains them will have to settle for less.  _Though not by much._

“This is bloody fantastic,” he offers, unsure what dangerous thing he’ll say if he doesn’t start talking about how good the food tastes instead.

Harry’s much longer in finishing his mouthful, though he nods in commiseration.  “Outstanding.  I’ll have to extend my compliments to the chef.”

They don’t manage much more than that for the rest of the course, the only sounds between them the clinking of utensils against dinner plates and the indulgent gulping of red wine so out of Eggsy’s price range he’s glad it’s on the house.  It’s good, berrylike, sweet and heady, with a touch of plum flavor he’d like to try pairing with a blackberry tart he’s been meaning to bake.

Harry finishes as Eggsy’s down to his final spoonfuls, and Eggsy decides to make the most of the night before the older man decides to go.

“Can I ask what got you started at the food critic deal?”

“Is this an interview?” Harry asks teasingly between sumptuous bites of _mahon_. It’s not uncommon for Harry to finish the meals he most enjoys and this one has been more pleasurable than the norm.

Eggsy pulls a face that makes him look frightfully young, yet no less tempting.  “I’m curious.”

“I was commissioned with the Royal Army Medical Corps, as you may have known.”  Eggsy nods.  “I served the world over, tasted food the likes of which most Londoners will never know.  I fell in love; that is to say, my _palate_ fell in love with food.  Once I’d finished my tour, I opted not to go on another.  My heart no longer lay in that direction, and so I suppose it would suffice to say I followed my bliss.”

Eggsy does a piss poor job of not sighing at the fondness in Harry’s eyes as he talks about his past.  He’d give just about anything to look half that happy with the man he is now, to say nothing of the snot-nosed brat he used to be.

Abruptly hit with a bout of self-consciousness at how gone he is over a man twice his age, he swipes the last slice of cheese for himself with a bold wink at his table mate. The first bite sends a hum of pleasure rumbling through his chest.  This ain’t the cheddar he’s used to.  _Mahon_ is sweet, fruity almost with a hint of salt sharpness on the back end.  His sister would flip if he gave her this for a snack. 

He sucks a finger, chasing the taste to the last. It really is that good.

Harry presses his legs together to better conceal his burgeoning interest in the younger man’s mouth, suddenly grateful for the tablecloth obscuring his lap from prying eyes.  He’s already made a decision not to pursue Eggsy, but the younger man needn’t make him regret his choice this soon.

“That’s when you started being a human rights supporter?” asks Eggsy once the slice is gone and Harry is reminded that his fascination isn’t so terribly one-sided after all.  _He wants a mentor_ , he cautions himself, _not a bed mate._   As if those options are somehow mutually exclusive.

“It’s scarcely possible to visit some corners of the world and remain blind to the vagaries of merely _living_ there, being a human being in a place that staunchly refuses to acknowledge certain people’s humanity or their right to an at least _decent_ quality of life.  Britain is hardly perfect, but…” Harry pauses to sip his dry red as the blood in his lower half finally shifts to less incriminating areas of his body. “I am appreciative of what freedoms we do have here.”

Eggsy reads his expression best as he can.  He’s seen some of the best hustlers south London has, if Harry’s lying he’s better than the lot.  The Amnesty International adverts in _Gastronomica_ and the Heifer International TV spots seemed too bleeding sincere to be believed but maybe now Eggsy does.

“You really care.  I hear all sorts of posh types spouting off about hungry children and not putting a foot out of line to help.  You’ve really done the thing properly.”

Harry fingers the stem of his wineglass, preoccupied with the very ‘posh types’ who’d brought him into the Kingsman fold only to prove their oaths of chivalry a lie.

“I’m afraid the role of dilettante isn’t one that suits me.  I’m moved to act before I’m moved to speak.”

“You sure,” Eggsy goads, a laugh threatening, “ ‘cause I’ve read you go on a ways.”

Harry rolls his shoulders in a gesture that he would assure anyone is _not_ a shrug despite its shrug-like qualities. “It’s possible I’ve become somewhat more verbose over the years.”

“The Dickens of Food Writing they call you on the internet.  You talk like you’re getting paid by the word.”  Never mind that Eggsy likes how Harry uses eleven words for every three that’d do.  He’d listen to that voice read the dictionary in six languages if Harry offered to whisper it in his ear.

Harry scoffs.  “That’s a pernicious lie.  My editor would murder me once for every gratuitous adverb.  New Scotland Yard would find me strung up by a set of red biros.  Merlin doesn’t hold with frippery.”

That’s the umpteenth reference to the Harry’s lifelong editor Eggsy’s noticed and he’s starting to feel a sting of envy for the man.  They say you can’t hate anybody you’ve never met, but Eggsy’s willing to try it.  _The hell sort of name’s Merlin anyway?_   Not to say Eggsy makes any more sense in this day and age.

“But enough about me,” Harry rounds out.  “Tell me, Eggsy, what drives a young man such as yourself to writing about food?  You must have had any number of opportunities at your feet, given your background as a gymnast and a Marine trainee.”

Eggsy’s heart kicks up another notch remembering that Harry’s taken the trouble to read about him and _remember_ the details.  _A regular gent’s gent._   That’s not helping the needy twist he gets in his gut every time their eyes meet over the table.  _Shit._ He swallows when it happens again and Harry cocks his head expectantly.

“Turns out, I was good with a sniper rifle but better with a griddle. I liked the Marines, I felt like I belonged, but mum was too scared to lose me like she lost me dad.  She needed me and I came home.  The blog was just a way to get some of that sense of belonging back, and next thing I knew, it took off.”

Harry props his chin on his interlaced fingers to think.  “If I recall correctly, you test recipes as well. You have an entire online channel dedicated to your demonstrations. I thought your series on budgeting with dignity was especially inspired.  Speaking for myself alone, I find your vlogs chronicling your gastronomic experiments the most impressive.  For all that you are very young, I can only foresee you improving with time.”

Eggsy holds tight to his wineglass lest he drop it and lose his wits.  “You really watched?  _You_?  Not, like, an intern or somethin’?”  He twists his lip and switches his gaze to the back of some stranger’s head, putting on like he doesn’t care when he cares too much.  “You didn’t sound that impressed when you mentioned my blog earlier.  Why would you?”

Harry supposes admitting that he’d seen video of Eggsy dancing to a hideous dubstep track whilst flipping a pancake and been charmed is unlikely to endear him to his companion. He sighs nonetheless and decides to dispense with his usual stoicism. 

“Forgive me, Eggsy, I tend not to be effusive in the praise I offer.  You’re a remarkable young cook, a talented one.  Don’t let a doddering old fool deny you the accolades you seek.  You’ve a passion for cuisine I’ve yet to see reflected in another writer and a set of innate gifts that I must admit I envy now that I seem to have lost mine.  Never take your gift for gab for granted.  It will see you through when friends will not.”

“Not good friends,” Eggsy retorts.  Roxy, Ryan, and Jamal have seen him through hell and they keep coming back.

“No.” Harry smiles faintly and thinks of his troublesome three.  “Not good ones.”  He’s glad to know that Eggsy’s had someone on his side to comfort him more than the indifferent pages of a magazine, even if he’s damnably envious of them for getting to know him.  And he is. Eggsy is a handsome lad, to say nothing of his inherent thoughtfulness.  Harry is jealous despite himself.  He’s far too old to be so easily besotted.

Eggsy sweeps the tip of his tongue over his wine-tinged mouth and there’s no guile in it, there’s none of the invitation Harry wishes he could see. He doubts he would believe his eyes if he saw it.  His taste for richness hasn’t abated since Corsica. A small part of him yearns to discover how prettily Eggsy begs.

“ ‘Ave I got somethin’ on my face? You keep lookin’ at me…”

“You have a very compelling look about you is all.  My apologies for staring.” Yet, he doesn’t stop, not really.

Eggsy wipes his lips, obscuring for a moment the dimples indenting his cheeks—and there it is. There’s… _something_ in the look he gives.  “I don’t think you’re sorry at all.”

Harry reclines in his chair, nonchalant.  “Well spotted.”

Their previous server returns bearing Sangiovese to refill their glasses for a third time.  Eggsy glimpses the maître d’ holding court for incoming guests at the front of the house.  _Got away clean, did he?_

“More wine, sirs?”

Harry covers his glass.  “I’ll pass, thank you, but young Mr. Hart will have some.”

The waiter nods and tops him off when Eggsy doesn’t protest.  Eggsy enjoys the wine enough for another glass and since it’s not his tab, he might as well imbibe.  And, needless to say, he needs a second to think.

Harry, for his part, doesn’t permit himself another glass. Alcohol makes him loose-lipped.

Harry internally debates whether he’d like to sample an _ensaimada_ now or take a few of the pumpkin jam pastry home to his brood of ravenous epicures.  For all that they like to decry doggie bag culture, they’re fiends for any leftovers he brings to the office.

Eggsy inhales the pleasant aroma of his wine after it’s rested and then tastes it again. Medium bodied, a clean, satisfying finish.  You could seduce someone with a wine like that.  He’s starting to wonder if that’s why Harry picked it.

“You called me Mr. Hart.”

“Pardon?”

“Just now, with the server. You said, ‘Young Mr. Hart will have some.’”  His impression of a posh accent verges on nightmarish to Harry’s ear, but it gets his point across.

“I…”  Harry manages to laugh at himself despite his mortification.  He’s usually good for four or five glasses before he’s this far gone.  “I suppose Freud would call that a slip of the tongue.”  He can’t quite bring himself to apologize for his faux pas when Eggsy doesn’t look terribly upset.

Eggsy spins his glass slowly to watch the light filter through the dregs of his vino.  Looking at Harry’ll give him away, he knows it.  “I’m more of a Jungian myself.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Unwin?”

“I liked Hart better.”  He looks down at the menu the waiter brought back after their main course.  “Split dessert with me?”

“I’d like that,” says Harry, momentarily distracted from contemplating Eggsy’s non sequitur.

They each take a coffee and agree to share a slice of _gato de almendras_ , a stunning almond cake topped with roasted almond ice cream.  Harry sighs into the first bite, letting the warm dense cake soften under the ice cream’s cold, rich consistency.  The contrast is pleasing to the tongue and hard palate. Once again, a simple item is elevated by tiny peculiarities in preparation. There’s a hint of ground spice and vanilla in the ice cream, a smidge of fresh lemon zest in the cake.

Confectioner’s sugar clings to the dip of Harry’s top lip and Eggsy’s never been more tempted in his life to taste a man he’s never met.  Harry’s understated grunt of satisfaction doesn’t help his fraying self-control.  The writer’s proverbial hard-on for good eating is legendary, but this is just teasing.

“Was good, wasn’t it?”

“Devastating.”

Eggsy’s attention drifts back to Harry’s sugared cupid’s bow.  What was it Harry wrote about kisses and sweet? How sweet renders the slick slide of mouths rawer and more human, more urgent and desperate, how a drop of cachaça rum on the tongue could slake the ravenous or drive them madder with lust.  Eggsy wonders if powdered sugar could do the same.

“Something the matter?”

“You got a little somethin’, just…here.”  Eggsy reaches over to wipe off the patch of white with his thumb right as Harry tastes his lip.  Harry’s tongue is warm and wet on his skin for the second it’s there. Warm enough to make him think about how much hotter it’d be on other parts of him.  Eggsy drops his hand and forces himself to think cool, dry thoughts.

Harry regrets, not for the first time, that they didn’t take a booth seat that might offer more privacy.  He’d relish the chance to speak more intimately with the younger man, to stoke the heat burning in those cheeks if he would allow.  Had he this evening to do over again, the meal would have ended an hour ago and in another, more private setting.

He catches the eye of their server and raises a hand.  “Check please.”  He doesn’t trust himself to stay longer.

Dinner is, expectedly, on the house. Harry and Eggsy thank their original server and the maître d’ anyway. Harry extends his compliments to the kitchen staff.

They venture out together into the chilly evening to wait for the valet to bring Harry’s car.  Eggsy has an expensive cab ride ahead. It doesn’t seem a complete loss and yet…this might be the last time he gets to see Harry when it’s just the two of them alone.  Worse comes to worst, he gets in his cab and goes home for a gab with Roxy about the most amazing dinner of his life.  But there’s another option.  He’s sure he didn’t imagine those looks the other man’s been giving him all night, as if he wanted to pull Eggsy over the table and lick into his mouth for a palate cleanser.  The sugar bit at the end was the last straw.

He pulls on the gloves his mum got him for his birthday last year.  They’re soft with wear.

“I make a mean fry-up.  You interested?”

Harry is donning his lambskin driving gloves to combat the bite of the wind.  He has notes to make, a draft to outline—on a full stomach, no less.  “We’ve only just had a rather filling meal.  You can’t be hungry already.”  His offended tone is one for the books.

Eggsy laughs into his stiff hands.

“Not now, you snotty bugger.  In the morning.  I’ll cook us up something good and greasy, first thing.”

Harry catches on, or thinks he does.  “We’d need to work up a fair appetite first.”  Eggsy’s heated gaze is unmistakeable, as is the quirk of his lips.  He leans into Harry and their shoulders brush, their noses nearly so when Eggsy leans onto his toes.

“I’m game if you are.”  The puff of Eggsy’s breath on his jaw is short reprieve from the cold.

 “I am ever so ‘game.’” The valet pulls up in a gleaming black Bentley, exactly the type of ride Eggsy imagined Harry Hart cruising in.  Harry steps forward to open the passenger door.  “Join me?”

Eggsy doesn’t hesitate.  “ _Yes_ , Harry.”


	2. Chapter 2

Eggsy texts Roxy on the sly between sneaky glances at Harry busy behind the wheel.  s _tone cold fox cumn thru. mb a scrmr._   He hopes so.

 _Hart???_   How Roxy still manages to be surprised by him, he’ll never know.

He sends a winky emoji in reply.  He can practically hear her swearing.

_ffs Eggsy._

_use protection_ , she adds a few minutes later as Chelsea gives way to less pristine addresses.

Thirty seconds after: _Rbbrs n bed. Off 2 Amelia’s w JB. x_

He loves that girl.  He’s going to get her and that street dancer he follows online hooked up sooner or later.  Roxy’s been cow-eyed behind Gazelle for months. It’s the least he can do.

Harry is similarly occupied with his mobile once they come to a red light.  _Events have taken a fascinating turn_ , he texts Merlin.

_I don’t need a blow-by-blow, you pervy fuck._

_Don’t! Not a word,_ Merlin follows-up before Harry can conceive of a worthy retort.

 _None at all_ , Harry sends back, mindful of his brash grin.  Eggsy’s hand on his thigh makes it falter for all of a second as he leans over the centre console to murmur against Harry’s ear.

“What’s the gentleman’s policy on first date hook-ups?”

Harry is surprised he has to ask given their current position.  “Each to his own discretion.”

“What about fucking in the [backseat](http://www.bentleymotors.com/en/models/continental/continental-gt-speed/gallery.html) of a Bentley?”

Harry has yet to take a lover in this car, but Eggsy is shaping up to be an ideal candidate for his first. The backseat is just spacious enough to accommodate Harry’s limbs as well as Eggsy’s...superbly flexible figure.   _Probably best not to think of that just yet._   He wants this night to be a long one.  He considers the matter as the traffic light changes to go and Eggsy sets back in his seat.

“Not before the third date,” he decides at last.  He ought to give Eggsy something to strive for in the future.  It’s a future he finds himself wanting little by little.

Shifting back toward him, Eggsy smiles into his skin and slips his hand underneath Harry’s coat to stroke his chest.   _He’s got pecs, ‘course he does._

“I can work with that.”  If Harry’s heartrate trips to the rhythm of his touch, that’s no one’s business and Eggsy doesn’t mention it.

They come to another intersection and are momentarily stuck behind a procession of cars.  Eggsy takes this opportunity to tip over into Harry’s lap for ten full seconds, to seize Harry’s lips with his own and slide his hands into Harry’s hair.  Eggsy grins when Harry wastes a couple of those seconds being stunned, and three more humming his pleasure before he gets his act together and kisses back, bloody enormous hands grasping Eggsy’s face to hold him in place.

All those pictures Eggsy used to look at got it wrong. There’s nothing soft about Harry’s mouth, how he claims what he kisses and maps himself onto other people’s mouths—Eggsy’s mouth this time—without even using his teeth. He leaves his lips all tender and bruised and _aching_ in a way Eggsy can’t put into words.  He’s just latching onto the headrest to press closer when the driver behind them leans on their horn to get them to move.

Harry rolls his eyes at the intrusion.  “Later.”

Eggsy scrambles back into his seat, thankful for Harry’s tinted windows. They pass through more darkened streets, their annoyed pursuer having turned off farther back.  The traffic has settled to few enough cars that Eggsy could probably get away with another kiss if he wanted.  He shifts on the warmed seat, eyeing the distance between where he is and where he’d like to be next.

Harry handles the Bentley with ease, effortlessly hugging the kerb through turns, shifting between gears like he was born with a stick in his hand. The leather-bound wheel is made for his grip, soundless as it spins through each lane change, his fingers light on the hand stitching.

“You’re quiet. Something on your mind?”

Only the question of whether there’s anything Harry can’t do _._ Because he’ll give Harry food; food was his first, but driving? Kissing?  God help him if Harry’s as good at fucking as he is the rest.  Eggsy will never want to let him leave.

“Ya can’t go ‘round kissing people like that is all.  That’s rude, that is.”

“Can’t I, dearest?” Harry teases, bringing Eggsy’s tense fist to his lips to kiss each knuckle till his fingers relax.  All Eggsy can do is laugh and pretend Harry doesn’t make him a little breathless.

“I ain’t a beekeeper, so you can give up charmin’ the pants off me. I’m a sure thing.”

“All the more reason to woo you,” Harry murmurs as they come to another red light. He pulls Eggsy back across the gearbox to kiss him again. Their noses press together as their lips do. There isn’t anybody to tell them to stop this far from the Chelsea side. All there is, is foot traffic from the late closing shops and the dank-lit pubs, rowdy shouting arguments over the latest rugby matches spilling out onto the pavement. Not that either of them notices. It’s unclear just how many green lights they’ve missed by the time Harry releases Eggsy from his relentless campaign of slow kisses.

_How can I resist when his mouth is made for them?_

Eggsy stares at Harry’s lips, already missing them terribly.  He had fantasies like this when he was young enough to let himself want what he couldn’t have.

“You’re more patient than I realized.”

“Hmm?” He clears his throat to clear the cobwebs and tries to get his bearings. They’re not far from the flat he shares with Roxy.  “I don’t mind being good when the reward looks good as you.”  He indicates they should take the next left.  “It’s not far.”

“Excellent.”

“Excellent, now, is it? Look who’s sounding eager now.”  Eggsy reaches up to trace Harry’s jaw and combs his fingers through the hair curling behind his ear.  It’s silky, softer than it ever looked on the back cover of a book. It smells even better.

Eggsy points at an empty spot outside the stone walk-up he’s lived in with Roxy for the past two years. It’s less than he hopes for ultimately but more than he thought he’d have.  “This is me.”

Harry parallel parks like a BAMF—because of course he does—and shuts off the car.  “I like it.”

Snorting, Eggsy levies himself from the passenger side, making a half-arsed effort at straightening his clothes. Since he means to lose them in minutes, he doesn’t see the use. “You drive a Bentley and I bet you got a bimmer on standby. This ain’t exactly the Ritz.”

Harry gets out and secures the car behind him. “I have a house in Stanhope Mews and eat beans on toast at all hours of the night. I sleep naked and wear a threadbare velvet dressing gown to breakfast. I don’t give a shit about what your flat looks like, I give a shit about you. Anymore questions?”

“Loads.”  Eggsy shoves Harry back against the driver side door and drags him down by the back of his neck till they’re kissing again. He’s got a million questions and not a one that won’t wait until he’s had his fill of this smartarse mouth.

Harry sucks at his bottom lip that’s just asking for it, swallows every one of Eggsy’s blissful sighs. He pulls back to kiss the younger man’s chiselled jaw. He could retire and spend the rest of his days in worship of the cut of these cheeks, the angle of this nose.

Harry absently considers grabbing the overnight bag he keeps in the boot and ultimately decides against it.  If he needs anything, he can retrieve it later.  He’d rather kiss Eggsy for longer, perhaps lay him out on the high gloss finish of his car to see how quickly, how completely he can shatter him with his hands, his tongue.  He lifts Eggsy clear off his feet to set him on the front end of the Bentley so that he can finally reach all he craves. Let the drunkards be damned and get their eyeful; the hedonists are playing.

Eggsy attacks his shirtfront under his jacket and coat, scratching at Harry’s collarbones and shoulders as the older man bites at his birthmark, trails wet breaths down his throat to taste every inch of skin he can.  Eggsy is burning up hotter than his ears the first time he heard Harry speak Italian, when he realized it wasn’t all admiration but pure unbridled lust. That’s got nothing on this.

He pants under Harry’s touch.  “Gonna take me on the street jus’ like that? Ain’t very gentleman-like, eh, bruv?”

“Gentlemanly I can do.  Would you care to see how a gentleman fucks, darling?”

“Yeah. Fuck yeah, give it to me.”

“Show me inside.” He tugs Eggsy from his sprawl on the hood to his feet. He wavers, drawn toward Harry by the same force that made him want _that seat at that table_ at Mallorca when one or two others were free.

“Lots o’ ways to take that request.”   And Eggsy would do it. Right now, right here, if Harry wanted him on his knees, he’d give it a moment’s thought.

“As I don’t favour an ASBO at my age, I’m afraid there’s only one that’s acceptable.”

Not that Harry hasn’t come close to having an impressive arrest record of his own. The Kingsman knights are known to do their nights out in style.  The Gastronomes meets frequently to disseminate assignments for restaurant and book reviews, culinary school demonstrations, judging food competitions, as well as speaking engagements and the like, but their real adventures tend to cluster around food festivals. Offer free food and drink and you will never be able to keep the Kingsman knights at bay. Bring Harry and James, and mayhem is inevitable.

Eggsy grins like he doesn’t believe his protests anyway and grabs his hand to draw him inside as the street lamps switch on.

…

…

Eggsy’s flat is roughly what Harry expects.  Not a large place, the sitting room is at one with the dining room and only just separated from the kitchen by a bar-style counter and a set of tall stools. A short hallway leads to parts as yet unknown. A multitude of culinary texts litter every horizontal surface, magazines, cookbooks, and nonfiction by himself and his colleagues—Roden and Steingarten to name two. The walls feature a collection of maps pinned with cut-out pictures of regional dishes, some he recognizes. He sheds his gloves to touch one.

“A culinary map.”

Eggsy lifts his chin in grim defiance as if Harry might mock his aspirations as some are wont to do.  “I wanna try everything.  Something to strive for, innit?”

Harry nods and moves on.  “So it is.”

There are signs of another influence in the apartment. A chef’s coat on the hook, a toque on the shelf.  Neither is Eggsy’s from the name stitched on the starched fabric.  _R. Morton_ , he reads.  _A flatmate or a lover?_   He opts for flatmate given Eggsy lack of concern at his curiosity. The last thing Harry wants it to be caught in a jealousy game.

“It’s not much, but it’s been home for a couple o’ years.”

“It suits you.” Harry lightly fingers a framed picture of Eggsy with a shorter woman of roughly the same age and a little girl who has his eyes.  “Yours?”  He doesn’t miss how Eggsy lights up at the question.

“My kid sister, yeah.  She’s the cutest li’l bit there is.  That’s my best mate, Roxy.  She’s out, won’t be back till tomorrow.”

“You make quite the family, you three.”

“Family’s what you make of it.” Eggsy’s not out to ruin this perfect night thinking about all that’s still wrong with his.  “Who’s your family?  You got your editor but who looks out for you when you work too hard or tells you to give that silver spoon up your arse a rest?”

“Merlin.”

Eggsy grunts.  “Does a lot for you, does he?”

“Just about everything.  He’s my best friend for thirty years now.”

Eggsy clinches his jaw, tries not to get his hopes up.  This ain’t what they came here for.  “And you two never…?”

“Have you and your Roxy?”

“Nah, I don’t see her like that.”

“Nor I Merlin.  We’re as close as brothers.”

“Brothers are good to have.”

Harry tips his head to that most beloved photograph. “Sisters, too.”  He touches Eggsy’s neck just so. “But there are other things that we need as well.”

Eggsy gulps.  “Yeah, like what?”

Harry draws his thumb over Eggsy’s birthmark.  “To be known intimately and deeply as only a lover can.”

“You linin’ up for the job, bruv?”

Harry loosens the single button of Eggsy’ blazer and tugs it from his shoulders.  “Don’t call me _bruv_.”

Eggsy returns the favour and shoves Harry’s coat and jacket onto his floor. He doesn’t have long to feel guilty before Harry’s growling in that _fucking tone, Jesus how_ and crowding him back against the shelf mouth first, as determined to crawl into Eggsy as he is to devour him.

For the record, Harry doesn’t play fair when it comes to his lovers.  Their lustful gazes are fuel to his hardy libido, the pants and moans make him harder.  Eggsy is no exception. Well, no, he is exceptional, but not in the fact that Harry gets off on his obvious arousal, rather in how desperately his blatant hunger makes Harry want to keep him. Harry doesn’t keep lovers anymore.

He sucks possessive marks along that impressive jawline. Even if this Roxanne is no threat, it doesn’t hurt to make his position perfectly clear.

“Fuckin’ hell, ‘Arry. Quit teasin’.” He probably doesn’t mean for that to sound like a plea for mercy.  Harry is terrible at mercy.  Harry jerks Eggsy onto his toes to reach the boy’s mouth, rubbing his teasing mouth over those hypersensitive lips till Eggsy’s throat spills over with needy sounds to match his roving hands.

Eggsy is all lithe muscle under his clothes. Beautiful and young. Eager, pleading.  Harry doesn’t stand a chance.  Eggsy won’t.

Harry traps him in a cage of strong arms and a hard chest that Eggsy wouldn’t try escaping from if somebody slipped him the bloody key. This is the dream and it tastes like Harry Hart, smells of him, is hard and loud and _close_ as him.  Eggsy’s prick’s as solid as buckshot in his trousers, his arse clinching with wanting to be filled, finally. Eggsy’s fucking done for. 

Eggsy’s tearing at the rest of Harry’s buttons as Harry starts undressing him. He doesn’t note the comparably cheaper make of Eggsy’s clothes. He wouldn’t care if he did. He notices the knife scar sitting low on his neck and other marks telling of broken bones gone untreated over time, even some that were. He caresses each he finds. All signs of a body attached to a man that wasn’t loved as he ought to be, as Harry would love him if allowed. Resting over his muscled chest is a medal suspended from a discreet chain. It’s one he recognizes.

There’s much Harry remembers from his days in the military that he shan’t be forgetting in his lifetime. The adherence to order and ceremony, its austerity, its neatness, and most of all, its keepsakes. Medals such as this are placeholders for a life, a symbol of sacrifice that can in no way encompass the enormity of the life given in service.  He may be ignorant of the details, but he doesn’t need to ask.  Someone who lived no longer does; that’s explanation enough.

Eggsy can’t get a read off Harry like this.  Most he goes to bed with have _something_ to say about his medal, an off-colour remark about him liking a bit of pink or a curious squint. Harry just lightly fingers the gilt rope making up the insignia of his dad’s old unit like he knows what it stands for.  He doesn’t ask like the others and some part of Eggsy is grateful for it.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He hunches a shoulder.  “Was a long time ago, back when I was a kid.”

The older man brushes the back of his fingers along Eggsy’s chin.  “Not so long ago, then.”  He presses his lips to Eggsy’s temple once and then again, leaving a trail of dry kisses down the side of his face, each one so soft and worshipful Eggsy has to close his eyes at the sensation they leave behind.

They go quiet, the two of them, an intimate hush descending over the flat where they’re taking each other apart for the first time when it doesn’t feel like the first at all.  They’re entangled against the door, Harry a tall streak of bespoke touches disassembling Eggsy piece by piece. He leaves all Eggsy’s defences in the dirt.  Eggsy’s going to love him till he’s dead, till they both are.

Harry cradles Eggsy’s jaw in his hand.  “I am going to savour you as I would the finest wine.” Cliché as it is, and Merlin would balk and strike the words from any manuscript in which he dared write them, it’s the truth.

Eggsy is paralyzed for a minute, caught in the intensity of the Harry’s stare. This can’t be real.

“Don’t that mean you have to taste me first?”  He tries for cheeky, ends up at unsure.

Harry nips at his lip. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Don’t know about that. Maybe you’re all talk.”  He slips out of Harry’s grasp toward the back hall.  “Come on, old man. Grand tour’s not done yet.”

His breath catches wen Harry’s eyes go dark as the good brandy and he stalks after him.  Other men walk; not Harry, he stalks like he’s got plans that include taking Eggsy to task till he’s hoarse and exquisitely numb from the waist down.

That is exactly what Harry plans to do.

Gulping, Eggsy leads the way back to his bedroom, shouldering open the door so he can effect damage control right away. There’s a poster of one of Harry’s old book covers taped inside his closet; he hides with a slick kick to bang closet door shut.  Harry would laugh if he saw his own face staring at him, or he’d leave and that’s the last thing Eggsy wants.  Eggsy meant it when he said that Harry got him through the rough times. He just wants tonight.

“Come ‘ere, then.” He grabs for Harry’s ridiculous shoulders to drag him onto his hastily-made bed. The sheets are cool on his scorching skin, the polar opposite of Harry who’s so hot an iceberg couldn’t bring his temperature low.  Eggsy rakes his nails down Harry’s side, then shoves up his shirt tails to reach more rippling skin. He’s all sinewy muscle grinding down on Eggsy right as their mouths slot together.

Eggsy adds ‘wicked kisser’ to Harry’s list of mortal sins.  Bad enough that he’s handsome, all cleft chin and dimples to drown in; he has to be a good with his tongue as he is with his fingers.  What was it Harry wrote back in the day? ‘As a lover’s satisfaction at the end of a long night, the fate of the world may hinge on the tip of a tongue.’ Eggsy gets it. Does he ever get it.  Harry could keep him gagging for it from that tongue alone.

They kiss for ages. His jaw aches with the intensity of it yet he wouldn’t give this up for anything in the world. It’s sick, it is, how Harry uses his weight to press Eggsy into the mattress, makes himself at home between Eggsy’s spread thighs, moves his tongue into Eggsy’s mouth like he owns the place, like everything he tastes is his now.

Eggsy would sign over the title himself to keep doing this.

Harry strokes Eggsy everywhere he can reach in their semi-clothed state. Eggsy has a body befitting his athletic background. He’s thickly muscled and limber, all over strong. He’s divine.

After writhing mindlessly together for what feels like hours, they part to find their bearings.  Eggsy’s lips are slick and red; Harry’s are no better, and his hair is a fright of half-formed curls begging for Eggsy’s hands. Every part of Harry’s body seems to need some part of Eggsy to tame it. He wants to, but Harry doesn’t seem so sure anymore. The yearning is written in the pout of his mouth and the restlessness of his hands.  Eggsy grabs them to bring them to his chest and anchor Harry in this moment, right now.  _Don’t regret me yet._

“I ain’t a virgin or nothin’ if that’s what you’re thinkin’.” He means it as a poor joke.  Harry takes it far too seriously.

“You needn’t be a virgin to have misconceptions about how you ought to be touched.”  He strokes his hands down Eggsy’s shoulders, lets his thumbs shine on faded scars.  “Have you any idea how one first learns to savour a delicacy? Taste is merely one aspect. Pressure, scent, and texture are another.”

“You make it sound like a tasting menu.”

Harry nods in wry contemplation.  “You’ve done your homework. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

He strokes his hands down Eggsy’s lightly haired chest and stomach, noting what touches make Eggsy twitch instinctively and which spots evoke quick inhales of desire.  _How charmingly responsive._  Harry unfastens and draws off Eggsy’s trousers and his pants, and then shoves them off to the floor to be instantly forgotten. Eggsy is a beautiful creature, perfect in his imperfection. Where his limbs want for length, they have strength; they’re heavy-boned.  Harry has been falling in love with the taste of things for decades; this is a first for sight alone.

He brushes his lips up Eggsy’s shins, noses up his calves against the grain of the coarse hair on his legs. Eggsy shifts and his thighs open thoughtlessly in invitation.  He’s panting, his eyelids are heavy with arousal. His mouth drops open when Harry’s kisses the inside of his knees, then nips sharply at each inner thigh. He groans and his eyes finally flutter shut. His cock, sitting flushed and thick and impatient in the cradle of his stomach, twitches at each bite.

“Do you like when it hurts, darling?”

Eggsy squirms, caught unawares by the tone of Harry’s voice gone rough on the endearment. He likes it too much when Harry calls him sweet things.

“Not…not a lot, you get me?”  He’s had his fair share of hurting, he’s not a fan, but he thinks he might like whatever Harry wants with him.

“Teeth?”

Eggsy nods. He holds himself so still while Harry drags his canines down the slope of his collarbone and across the plane of breastbone.  His nerves are jangling beneath the surface of his skin.  His skin sings like he’s on fire and he’s found it’s a pleasure to burn.

He sinks his hands into Harry’s hair to hold him right…there when the older man descends to pepper kisses across his chest.  Harry worries at his nipple, scrapes the sharp edges of his incisors against the tip till Eggsy’s squirming it’s so tender and his cock’s leaking into his navel ‘cause this is the brand of hurt he likes.

“Harry…oh, fucking hell, _please!_ ” he begs, voice cracking on the last.

“You’ll have to be more specific.  Tell me, dearest, tell me what you want.” And doesn’t he sound nauseatingly composed while Eggsy’s going out of his head just being touched.

Eggsy can’t put words to what he wants. He wants Harry Hart like he is, marking every inch of him, leaving him hot and needy, because this is perfect, this knife’s edge. He could stay like this for the rest of his life and still plead for more. But he’s greedy, too.  Saying he wanted to be fucked is easy but it’s far from enough. He wants more than that.

“Anythin’, just do somethin’.”

Harry pauses, momentarily dumbstruck by his lack of foresight.  “I didn’t bring—do you have…?”

Eggsy stares up to the gorgeous tosser staring down at him. “What? What d’ya—a condom? Yeah, yeah.” Eggsy stretches up the bed—how he got pulled down so close to the end, he doesn’t know—to pull a strip of condoms from under his pillow.  “Always prepared.”

Harry files that tidbit away and takes the offered condoms.  “Do you produce lube for your next trick? Perhaps from an unforeseen pocket?”

“Shut it, you barmy git.” He does reach for his side table to produce an open tube of slick.  “You up to do the honours or have I tired you out already?”

Harry makes thorough work of showing how tired he isn’t. He opens Eggsy up on one finger, two, three, on the strength of that noble tongue Eggsy should know too well to be bent on, that bends him anyway. But he gets his own back on the downswing.

Harry pushes into him, thick and inexorable as some kind of reverse Sword in the Stone scenario Eggsy will not be mentioning aloud or Googling for his own sanity. They fit as if they’re supposed to, all hip kick and friction and _god yes, Harry._   Harry is grinning wolfishly, salt and pepper curls falling in his eyes as he keeps to a teasing pace.  And Eggsy loves him, fuck does he love this man.

“Did I mention,” Eggsy interjects as he lifts his leg slowly, _carefully_ onto Harry’s shoulder, “that I used to do gymnastics?”

Harry groans, sinking deep into the younger man, because he forgot. Somehow, in a matter of minutes, he forgot and this is the only memory lapse he will ever bless in all his twilight years to come. “ _Fuck_.”

Eggsy goes all sighing breaths and gasps.  “Yeah…fuck _me_.”  It’s more exclamation than plea, but Harry takes it in the sense he feels it. The minutes pass in a series of slow, filthy grinds that drive what oxygen Eggsy can take in right from his lungs.  Harry’s too good and deep, like he ain’t never leaving, never wants to. Bad enough that he’s taken Eggsy over from the inside but he takes his mouth back, too, wrings hiccupping sobs out of his throat with each shallow thrust of his tongue.

“Marvellous thing.” Their noses brush together, their eyelashes flutter as their brows meet.  Eggsy loops his arms under Harry’s shoulders to keep himself in position.

“Please. Fuckin’ hell. Please, ‘Arry, just…god.” The stretch burns. “ _Jesus_ …”

Harry’s chest heaves.  “Anything you want.”

“Faster. More. Just…more.”

Harry obliges for the sake of his own desire as much as from any desire to sate. Harry braces himself on one arms and wraps the other around Eggsy’s waist, anchoring the young man more firmly beneath him. He is going to make the best of this.

Eggsy chokes off a cry of Harry’s name, swearing instead at the abrupt shift of angle. Harry shudders, thrusting harder and faster into the heat of Eggsy’s body.  Eggsy doesn’t seem nearly close enough, but Harry can’t last, not after this build-up.

Harry presses Eggsy into the sheets to free up one of his hands.  Eggsy mutters vague disappointment only to arch into the heat of Harry’s palm stroking him off.

“Oh, fu….Ha—Har…Christ.”  His leg slips from Harry’s shoulder as the other man’s slick fingers tug at the leaking head of his cock. He’s getting it coming and going, inside and out. He’s stripped raw, a nerve Harry won’t let alone.

“Come now, darling. My darling. My beautiful darling.”

It’s the sweet things that get Eggsy, said in that raw honey voice he’s been fantasizing about for eons. Said _to him_ like he’s the most stunning glass of Port Harry’s ever imbibed. Eggsy scrabbles for purchase on Harry’s back, hissing, praying as he comes, orgasm yanked right out of the core of him to leave him shouting away what’s left of his voice.

Harry isn’t much better off, robbed of strength, of desire for anything but this boy, this man’s body that he may die yearning for. One night won’t be enough.  Harry buries that declaration in the dip of Eggsy’s throat, the corner of his mouth as he rushes to a blistering climax that knocks the wind out of him, renders him mute and still in Eggsy’s embrace.

Eggsy collapses backward onto the bed, trembling in exhaustion, hands sliding up and down Harry’s spine.  Harry pulls out, condom and all, and after discarding it god knows where, flops into the bedclothes beside him. They’re a sweaty disaster together and he thinks he loves it. They both do.

“Okay?” Harry asks.  It’s not really a question, they each know, but Eggsy squeezes his arm in response regardless.

Definitely okay.

…

…

Eggsy’s still recovering from the force of his orgasm when Harry takes to nibbling him all over again.  The man must be reaching his limit, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. He’d let Eggsy come first, hadn't he? That was what a gentleman did, saw to their lovers first.

“You’re a regular Galahad, huh?” Eggsy jokes into the mussed bedsheets bunched around him.  Harry’s too busy nuzzling his waist to enjoy the afterglow in its entirety.

Harry hums mysteriously in reply.  “A gentleman never tells.”

Eggsy laughs, breathless. Harry drags his stubbly jaw lower, rubs against Eggsy’s navel, then lower still.  Eggsy forgets altogether how to laugh after that.  Just as intended. Harry really is a gentleman first and foremost, after all.

He earned his own title of Galahad long ago when he insisted that Kingsman invest in more philanthropy and less ‘sitting around with their thumbs up their arses’ as they were wont to do after the Cold War officially ended. Once his codename was informally decided, the others rather naturally fell into place. Lancelot the troublemaker. Percival the staid, sturdy, and true. Merlin the technical wizard. Chester, the oldest and wisest, their leader. Newer inductees have been known to call Kingsman the ‘house that Harry built,’ but he knows that if it weren’t for Chester King and his forefathers the Kingsman guild would not stand today. The embezzlement scheme, however, was something of a disappointment for all concerned.

The Kingsman, most of whom are authors of some renown, use codenames to refer to one another when writing of their worldly exploits. A means of protecting the innocent, if you will. Not that any of them could lay claim to the title. None of them are innocent.  Not one of them, despite Merlin’s dubious claims to the contrary. The Roman holiday mischief alone put a permanent dent in his best friend’s vaunted halo. And, needless to say, Greece. Chile. Sweden.  They aren’t actually permitted to enter Russia anymore, come to think of it.  Though they uphold chivalry as the highest honour, they’re a barrel of trouble together.  Harry must admit he likes that about them.

But he likes these moments more. Those he spends alone in the arms of lovers who will change him utterly.  Eggsy Unwin is one such lover. In the morning, he thinks, it will be impossible to part from him without leaving behind some part of himself.  _Perhaps I won’t need to._ The younger man seems equally enamoured, if his clutching fingers are fair indicators of his desire for more.

Harry curls still slick fingers inside Eggsy and strokes them firmly across his tender prostate one last time. 

Eggsy comes down his throat with a hoarse shout, his eyes squeezed shut to dampen the ecstatic light show going off in his head. Harry will be the death of him.  A good one, though. Nobody could dispute that.

Harry tucks his young lover against his side to rest and Eggsy goes gladly, his limbs slack and tired and all too willing to bend to Harry’s loving attention.

“The stories I could tell you about food and wine festivals, darling. And you thought we were all posh twats with silver spoons up our arses.”

“Tell me.” Eggsy is eager for the bits of Harry’s life that don’t make it into the press or the books or the blog. He’s all exposure, but there are secrets every celebrity keeps.

Harry works his hand through Eggsy’s hair as he turns the memories over in his mind.  “Mmm, Melbourne in 2013 and 2015. Epcot two years ago. You should have been there with us in Aspen for the Classic.”

Eggsy watched a live stream of some of the event online. “This past June?  You were there? You didn’t write about it.”

“Nothing much to say that I _could_ say _._ I was acting as a judge, the others came along for the gift bags. You’d have enjoyed the bustle of it.  I should take you next time.”

Eggsy rests his chin on his folded arm.  He’s all for next time.

“Always wanted to go to something like that. Have you been the Noosa International Festival? What’s that’s like?”

“Are you planning to pump me for information all night?”

Eggsy musters his flagging energy to roll on top of the older man.

“Luv, Imma do all sorts of things to you that ain’t diggin’ after gossip. Believe that.”

Harry effects a skeptical air. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Twat,” Eggsy retorts, even as he leans down to shower Harry’s upturned face with kisses, paying special attention to his soft smile and crow’s feet. He has adored this face since before they existed.

“I’m quite sure I don’t believe you at all now.”

“Hate you.”

“You have many gifts, darling. Acting is not among them.”  He is so very sure of this, so resolutely convinced of his position in Eggsy’s affections that Eggsy cannot find it in himself to tell him otherwise.  He has never once hated Harry Hart. He isn’t going to start now. He kisses his left eyebrow.

“You’re sorta ridiculous.” He kisses his right.

“Hurtful,” Harry replies, beaming warmly. “Very hurtful, Eggsy. I may never recover from this awful thing you’ve said to me.”

“Absurd.” Eggsy kisses his stubborn chin.

“Is this becoming a game?”

“Depends. Ya like games?”                           

Harry tilts up his head back to offer up his nose.  “Love them.”

Obediently, Eggsy kisses his nose, too. By the time Harry drops off in the wee hours, there isn’t an inch of skin in want of being kissed.  Harry can’t think of another time where he felt so cared for.

Eggsy lightly draws his fingers over the lines creasing Harry’s sleeping face, deep and sharp as cookie cutters, they are. The upturns of Harry’s mouth sit in stark relief to the years etched on him like cross-hatching on a sketch where it’s the details that tell the story.

Reminds him of this poster he's got from when he lived with his mum and sister and was hiding his thing for blokes from Dean. He’d kept it rolled up in the back of his closet so his stepdad wouldn’t find it; he’d take it out to look at it whenever he felt lonely.  It was a shot from Harry’s old _South to Sardinia_ travel programme on BBC3. An aged black  & white of [Harry](http://the-colin-they-call-firth.tumblr.com/post/117246271795) sitting on a beach in shirtsleeves with his naked toes buried in the glistening sand. His hair was unruly as it is now, his drowsing smile easily as bright. He was lit up by the sun and the joy in that face changed Eggsy’s life.

London’s morning is a ways off, but that doesn’t stop Harry from being warmth and sunlight itself in Eggsy’s bed tonight. Eggsy finds he doesn’t mind the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My literal only excuse is that porn is hard af. Sorry for the delay in posting. The third part should be up forthwith since it's largely done.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry follows his nose out of Eggsy’s bedroom at mid-morning if his watch is to be believed after its run-in with Eggsy’s shower.

He finds Eggsy barefoot in garish Jeremy Scott running shorts and an apron in his kitchen, practising an enticing little shimmy with attendant arm movements that Harry only recognizes because Charlie and his irritating lot seem dead set on imitating it, badly, every time he turns around.

_“Don’t believe me, just watch. Don’t believe me, just watch. Don’t believe me, just watch!”_

“I’m not sure whether I believe any of this, but I am enjoying the morning entertainment.”

Eggsy momentarily loses his footing in the liberal dusting of flour on the kitchen floor.  Harry darts forward to catch him before last night’s success story becomes a rather disappointing trip to A&E.

Eggsy slumps, relieved against his chest.  “Nice reflexes, old man.”

Harry maintains his protective grasp on his cheeky charge.  “Saved you from a head wound, didn’t I?  Good enough for an explanation for this culinary carnage.”  The sink boasts a respectable collection of mixing bowls. The drying rack is full to capacity with a rolling pin, two baking sheets, four KitchenAid attachments, a spatula, a fiberglass chopping block, and a tea kettle.

“Baking cookies. Lavender shortbreads and matcha white chocolate sugars.”

“I’m intrigued.”  Harry means hungry, but he’s found that aspiring chefs are more likely to offer to feed him if he expresses polite interest first.

“Give the lavenders a bit, I just set the icing with candied rosemary.  The matchas‘re done, though. Should be set by now.”  Eggsy wriggles out of his embrace to check over the batch of round green-dusted sugar cookies cooling on his sideboard.

“You got up in the middle of the night to make these?”  This is hours of work; two at least if he had all the ingredients handy.

Eggsy ducks his head as he clucks unnecessarily over his perfectly formed confections.  “Not sure these are right. Maybe I’ll try them first.”  Eggsy doesn’t want Harry faking for him.  These have to be great or they’re going to JB.

 “I’d be happy to play guinea pig.”

Eggsy offers up a sumptuous bite and as it would be ever so rude of him to refuse, Harry proffers his lips.

Though the bloody thing just about dissolves in his mouth, he experiences it in layers. First, there’s the matcha, or green tea, powder that springs on him a bright, sugared freshness in time to a sort of bitterness that can only be offset with sweet.  The cookie beneath is the answer and fuels more questions.  At base, the cookie is chewy without being soggy, baked at precisely the correct temperature, left to cool for the ideal amount of time. There’s a further hint of green tea there that brings the experience full circle.  But it’s the expertly tempered richness of it that does him in.  White chocolate he recognizes, honey he notes, and brown sugar he suspects, all combine to produce a superb mouthful that miraculously avoids being sickly sweet.  He hasn’t tasted anything this satisfying since he first lapped at his young lover’s thighs.

He closes his eyes.  “Christ, that’s good.”

Eggsy can’t help perking up at Harry’s groan.  He knows what that sounds mean now. He licks his lips.

“You like?”

Instead of answering, Harry snags the remainder of the cookie between his teeth and tips his head back to enjoy the taste as it slides down the length of his tongue to his gullet.

Eggsy follows the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“That is properly hot. Good enough for ya?”

Harry hums ecstatically, stroking his thumbs up and down Eggsy’s sides.  This is an experience he’d recommend to the masses were he in the habit of sharing his idea of heaven with anybody else.

“Did I put weed in those cookies, ‘cause you are well blitzed, guv.”  Eggsy slides his arms around Harry’s waist to nuzzle his chest.  “It’s hot as fuck.”

“Is it,” Harry demurs, tipping his chin to allow Eggsy more room to nibble his fill.  Eggsy’s mouth is to Harry’s skin as these cookies are to Harry’s palate; a glut of gustatory satisfaction, an orgy of oral pleasure.  He regrets that he can’t quite taste Eggsy on his lips anymore.

“Is this your recipe?” he asks as he permits himself a second cookie and eyes a third with longing.

“Found it online.  I just made some changes here and there.”

“Tell your readers they’ve a connoisseur in their midst.  Your palate is a treasure to behold.”

“Only as good as what I eat.”  He sucks another mark onto Harry’s chest, watching him heavy-lidded as he downs the cookies Eggsy made.  He can’t help liking the look of Harry high—and hard—on his food.  Harry’s cock is that little bit stiffer under Eggsy’s robe, thick and prodding against Eggsy’s thigh, and he doesn’t think it’s just the kissing that’s done it.

“If I knew it was food that got you all worked up, I’d have whipped up my coconut shrimp curry last night.” He rubs his thigh against the tell-tale bulge, smirking.  Harry offers the powder-stained pads of his fingers for Eggsy to lick clean.  He does, works them between his ready lips, sucking greedily at the mere promise of sugary sweetness.

Harry doesn’t give the baking sheet another glance so enamoured is he of Eggsy’s mouth, of the trouble promised by his smile.

“It wasn’t the food I was after when I followed you home.”

“You was after my fit little arse. Still are.”

“I haven’t denied that.  It’s quite an arse.”

Harry skims Eggsy’s back and waist to get his hands on said arse and grips till Eggsy’s flush against Harry’s front, balanced on his tiptoes with the force of it.  Eggsy regrets not following Harry into the shower earlier.

 “You can see it better,” Eggsy pants, “when my shorts’re off.”  He guides Harry’s hands down his waistband and uses them to give his shorts a shove down. The catch on his knees, leaving him trapped in his pink tartan apron, unable to move. Just how Harry likes him.

“There’s a meal I like the look of.”

“Best put that mouth to work, then.”

Harry drops to his knees, dragging his tongue in a quick, stuttered smear down Eggsy’s clothed abdomen till the underside of his jaw meets the sticky head of Eggsy’s cock and then his mouth does.

Eggsy lasts longer this morning. He clings to the counter to keep his balance, fists his hands in Harry’s borrowed robe as the critic works his lips and tongue up and down his prick. He’s got a whole new respect for every morsel lucky enough to be savoured by this man.

Harry basks in tasting Eggsy. He’s thorough verging on sloppy. Wet, filthy, indulgent in the extreme. He loops his arms around Eggsy’s straining thighs to keep Eggsy upright when his knees threaten to go from under him. He hums when Eggsy tangles his fingers into his hair. He really is too lovely when he begs.  Harry takes special pleasure in making him come moaning his name.  He never could resist an indulgence.  He kisses his way up Eggsy’s twitching body, ignoring the grinding pop in his own complaining knees. He’s suffered worse for less.

“That’s a lovely way to say good morning.”

“I thought so.”

Eggsy wagers he can do Harry one better. Because his knees don’t pop and his back doesn’t hurt and he hasn’t had Harry in his mouth yet, which has to be a crime somewhere on earth if it isn’t in London.  Harry’s fond laughter follows Eggsy down to the floor.

He wants Harry seared on his tongue, he does, and that’s what he gets, more or less.  Harry’s short nails rake his scalp with each bite he takes along the crest of Harry’s hips. He nibbles softly where the skin is thin and easily bruised. He follows the faint trail of curling hair from sternum to navel to the dark thatch at his cock that he doesn’t know nearly well enough. Harry’s muscles leap beneath his kisses. It takes him a minute to realize those aren’t moans he’s holding back but laughter. Harry’s biting his tongue trying not to laugh.  If Eggsy hadn’t seen the dimple of his cheeks himself, he might be offended.

“You’re ticklish.”

“Don’t,” Harry warns, backing up slightly.

Eggsy twiddles his fingers against Harry’s sides and has hang back to avoid a pair of sharp knees to the face.  “You are.”

“Stay where you are.” Harry tries in vain to ward him off.

Eggsy buries his face in Harry’s taut stomach and blows raspberries until the man doubles over his shoulder in hysterics.

“Egg—sy, Eggsy, this isn’t fair. This was—s not the plan!”

“Sod the plan, luv.”

Eggsy peppers warm pecks between the ticklish touches, not that they make much difference in the scheme of things. There’s no stopping Harry now that’s he been set off.  They don’t get much farther than Harry giggling into his hair this time while he tries to pin Eggsy in place to keep his taunting fingers from wandering. The years fall off him, making him red-faced and utterly ridiculous at first sight.  _Utterly adorable._ Eggsy gets up and kisses him where he stands since he can’t tell a man he _knows_ but has only just met that he loves him.  Even Eggsy isn’t that mad.

Neither of them much minds kissing instead.  That’s a reward in itself.

They make a post-snogging snack of candied-rosemary-encrusted lavender shortbreads during which Eggsy gets eyefucked by a delighted Harry countless times.  Nobody’s ever looked at Eggsy the way Harry does, like he’s some marvel to behold.

To Harry, he is.

Harry nudges up behind him while he’s tidying the counter and packing the leftover cookies into Tupperware to take to his mum’s this evening.  He snares Eggsy in his lean arms and tucks his chin into Eggsy’s neck.

“Let me make you breakfast.”

Eggsy didn’t expect Harry’d still be here, much less look for another reason to stay. Not that he’s complaining. “There ain’t much fresh in the fridge, I haven’t been to the shops in days.” He might have fudged about making a fry-up last night when all he was thinking about was Harry’s teeth at his nape.

“Just past ripe’ll do us,” Harry quips as he swans off to excavate the edibles from the refrigerator.

Eggsy sometimes forgets that Harry cooks since he’s known foremost for his writing and less for his culinary endeavours.  Harry swiftly reminds him why the rest of the culinary world is missing out.

Harry digs into the pile of slightly over-ripe veg from the crisper with gusto, toppling some of the tomatoes into the food processor before slicing the rest, peeling the exterior off the carrots and feeding them into the juicer.

“I thought you Michelin-star types only did it fresh.”

“Walk the world and you’ll see people make do with every type of produce.  Anything short of a pulp is good enough to keep body and soul together.  Every bit is fodder for a meal so long as it’s clean and hasn’t begun to gather flies; that’s when you risk infection by any number of insect-borne parasites.”

“I had it pretty bad there growing up, me and mum and then my baby sister and shit stepdad, but it was never…there just wasn’t nothing to eat. It wasn’t…there just wasn’t.  If I’d thought of it like that, maybe there might have been a time or two.”

“I’m sure you made the best of what you had.  That’s how people survive and have for millennia.  It’s the way of mankind.”

“I thought it was ‘manners maketh mankind,’” Eggsy cheekily counters.

“Manner maketh mankind a more pleasant animal to interact with.  It’s necessity, nevertheless, that drives us forward.  Come along, dearest. I’m going to make you a proper omelette.”

“All right, then. Show us how it’s done.”

“Feed that lemon juice into the juicer with the cucumber, would you?”

“Sure.”

Eggsy follows Harry instructions to crack these eggs and put that fruit or veggie in the processor till the counter is overflowing with fixings. The smell of fresh-cut bell peppers makes him sit up and take notice, as does the smell of minced onions. He starts to see a meal coalesce from the chaos.

“How’d you think this stuff up on the fly? You couldn’t know what I had in here.”

“The longer you cook, the more you learn about people’s eating habits and what most of them can’t do without.  You’re a self-taught chef, so there are certain essentials I could be nearly sure of, such as lemon juice, potatoes, carrots, baking powder.  You hadn’t travelled recently and you’ve a housemate in the same field, ergo it stood to reason that whatever you did have on hand would be in arm’s pitch of edible.  Omelettes are the little black dress of breakfast items; they can be composed of just about anything edible.  It was a lossless gamble on my part.”

Eggsy tucks himself up behind Harry’s back, propping his chin on his shoulder to watch him meticulously chop the produce with his straight edge. He’s rolled up his sleeves to leave his forearms bare and flexing as he works.  The knife handles like the Bentley does, all but sighing under his guidance.       

“How’s it you’re as smart as you seem in your reviews?  Nobody has all that junk in their heads.”

“I’ve had a lifetime to accumulate such ‘junk,’ dear Eggsy.”

Eggsy looses a filthy smirk.  “I like the junk from last night.”

“Likewise, my darling.”

“I like _that_ , too.”

Harry pauses his slicing to cup Eggsy’s jaw for a kiss that’s sweet and chaste. So sweet Eggsy’s toes curl into the linoleum floor.  He presses a kiss to Harry’s thumb where it strokes his lower lip, after.

“Be a dear and add heavy cream to the eggs. Season to taste and whisk till smooth and even. I'll finish up the veg.”

“Sure thing.” Eggsy kisses Harry’s palm and goes to do as he’s told.  Before long he’s plating two hearty omelettes filled with roasted vegetables under Harry’s direction.  His steady hand comes in handy; they slide out of the skillets just about perfect. Eggsy unearths some pesto sauce that isn’t too old if he recalls correctly and they sit down to a breakfast of champions, chilled vegetable juice at one wrist, sweets at the other. It’s nice.

Each of them thinks very cautiously that they could get used to this.

…

…

Harry’s mobile sounds as he’s getting dressed following another, much more social shower. Eggsy’s off making embarrassed overtures to his returned flatmate in the kitchen.  Harry is contemplating making a timely entrance just to see Eggsy stutter.

Having fastened his cufflinks properly, Harry swipes right on his touchscreen and inputs his pin number. It’s James, his too frequent partner in crime.

From: James | Lancelot

 **_Cant wait to hear abt ur nu paramour  ;-)_** **_  
_ **

To: James

**_You’ve forsaken proper punctuation but you’ve opted to spell out paramour. Me thinks you haven’t got the right of texting just yet._ **

From: James | Lancelot

**_You wound me, old chap. :-/_**

To: James

**_The text is mightier than the sword, dear. We all begin to show our age eventually._ **

From: James | Lancelot

**:-(**

From: Alistair |Percival

**_If I’m made to endure l33tspeak from my 45 y.o. lover for more than an hour, we’re going to have words, you and I._ **

Never one to mince words is Percival.

From: Merlin

**_You absolute wanker, you’ve gone and pitched Lancelot into a midlife crisis. The irony is outstanding._ **

To: Merlin

Cc: Alistair, James

**_This is not my fault._ **

This triad of disbelieving selfies he receives in reply convince him it’s in his best interest to end the argument there.  Nothing good can come from the three of them teaming up against him.  They’ll have him demonstrating the proper method for tomato slicing to day colleges for a month.

Eggsy’s laughter rings out alongside another Harry doesn’t recognize, and he thinks last night and this morning might be worth the inconvenience.

…

…

Eggsy’s fully dressed the next time he sits up in front of his webcam.  He’s got a review to finish up and a special guest to introduce. Roxy’s opted to make herself scarce for the rest of the day. Voyeurism apparently isn’t her thing.

“Oi, you lot. I got a guest I think you’ll like. Remember that review of that Mediterranean joint I talked about last week? Well, I did go and I had the most delicious _tumbet_ —that’s a kind of ratatouille—you’ve ever heard about. But I also had a dinner date.  You might’ve heard of him, probably from me.  Here with us today on Eatin’ with Eggsy is _Food & Wine’s_ foremost UK gastronome, noted chef, and James Beard Book & Journalism Award nominee and winner, Harry Hart!”

Huffing slightly lest he laugh in the face of Eggsy’s enthusiasm, Harry lowers himself into the next chair and waves somewhat bashfully at the blinking light atop the screen.  “Hello.”

“Welcome to our little show.”

“Not so little, I wouldn’t think. You’ve got thousands of subscribers.  You’re very well-regarded.”

“I know that _now_. And anyway, it’s just us here. No need to butter me up.”

“I rather enjoy buttering you up.  You’re better than bread and go better with wine.”

 _Christ_ , Eggsy thinks.  Harry’s looking at him like he wants to put on a different kind of show.  Eggsy can’t say aloud that he’d bend over for him this instant were it not for the camera, but he would.

Gulping, he tries to get on with it.  “You’re all probably asking how we met.”

“Funny story,” Harry interjects, nudging up his glasses.  He’s slouched all gorgeous in his armchair, legs crossed like some indolent king on a throne.  Eggsy could climb into that lap and have him where he sits and he’s damned if Harry doesn’t know he’s thinking it from the smirk on his face.

“He’s right.  It was like being in a rom-com or somethin’.  You both made reservations, but there’s only one table left.  The bloke makes a right tit of himself and then he feels bad…” He shoots Harry a _look_.

“Are we telling them everything, darling?”

“Which one of us was the tit, _darling_?”

“Duly noted,” Harry murmurs, despairing and still bloody dazzling besides.  “I was a poor sport.  Eggsy took pity on an old man and refused to hold my behaviour against me, for which I’m endlessly grateful.”  He cups Eggsy’s knee in a genial grip.  Rather, it’ll seem genial on camera; it wrings a shiver out of Eggsy as Harry brushes an amorous bruise concealed by his trousers.

Eggsy drags his body back on task.  “Damn right. I’m hot shit, you’re lucky I didn’t go find a princess to eat with.”  He giggles at Harry’s subsequent eye roll. “Any rate, dinner with _the_ Harry Hart is unlike anything you can imagine. ‘E’s polite as an earl, posh as an earl, and pretty as a fucking picture and no earl I ever seen.  Take me my word for it, I looked at ‘im long and hard last night.  One of a kind. Thick,” he whispers _sotto voce_ and winks at the green light.

“Eggsy!”

The younger of the two plays lazily at being apologetic. Harry’s ego is too big not to stroke and they haven’t been subtle this far; the whole thing will have to be done again or sliced to snippets in post.  Eggsy may as well take the piss out of the fittest one-nighter he’s had to date before he has to think about sending him back where he came from.

“ ‘S not my fault that cock o’ yours made an impression on me.”

“Just an impression. I can do better than that.”

“You’d better.  I can still talk so you’ve got a ways to go.” He puckers his lips in disappointment.

“Look at the mouth on you.”  Harry swoops down to ravish said mouth.  Eggsy’s always up for more ravishing. He’s still got his sights on that backseat, that food festival, the hood of any car Harry likes; maybe all of them. Nobody could blame him for wanting everything when it’s being offered to him.

Harry wouldn’t care who blamed him. Acting for the satisfaction of others has never done him any good. For the greater good, maybe, but not to please strangers. To please Eggsy, he’d do just about anything, even embarrass himself on the internet snogging a man thirty years his junior. If it’s this man, he figures he could do worse.

They sit brow to brow, fully kissed, breathing fast and smiling stupidly at one another.

“We aren’t live at all, are we?”

“Nope.  I edit all the footage in post.  Just wanted to see what you’d do if I told everyone I got shagged by a world-class gourmand.”  Eggsy wiggles his brows as though he isn’t still waiting for the other shoe to drop when he is.

“I’d brag,” Harry murmurs into the corner of Eggsy’s mouth. “I’d want to, though a gentleman never does. You’d make me a happy cad, because I want anyone who dares to look at you to know you’re mine.”

“Am I?”  Harry’s answering growl makes his stomach do a backhand spring.  “I thought sharing was a gentleman’s game.  Ain’t you a gentleman no more?”  Harry drags a thumb across his full bottom lip which he’s become infatuated with it all too quickly.

“Not after you.  I don’t share.”

Eggsy tuts and moves to straddle him on his chair.  “Gentleman definitely don’t talk like that.”

Harry wraps his arms around him and pulls him close enough to bite.  “Yes, they fucking do.”

…

…

Suffice it to say, _Eatin’ with Eggsy_ gets posted a little late this week, but it’s still the most-watched episode yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some stuff in this chapter that's subject to change upon rereading, as I'm unsure about it, but for the time being this is the story. I hope you enjoyed it for the most part. Thank you so much for reading! And thank you, Sara, for being such a great artist and cheerleader. You've all been enormously patient. I appreciate that.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a reminder to check out [Granpappy-Winchester](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com/)/[LazyBaker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker)'s awesome fanart for this story. You won't wanna miss it [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4632786). The art is FIYAH and the artist is, too. *heart eyes emoji* Don't forget to let Sara know what you think! Comments are love and who doesn't love love?
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015). They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
> 
> If you guys wanna talk/flail/flop with me on Tumblr, I'm [sententiousandbellicose](http://sententiousandbellicose.tumblr.com).


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